


Impressionism

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Art, Dougie Hamilton Loves museums, Fluff, M/M, Museums, i am an art nerd how did you know?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 09:47:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19867579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “You’re like, an art cryptid,” TVR says from a few yards away, sitting in his stall with no shirt on, as usual. “A big, ginger art cryptid.”He’s grinning, a big smile, nothing behind it but a gleeful anticipation of chirping Dougie to oblivion about this. That’s tantamount to approval, among hockey players. Dougie’s chest lightens just a little bit.“I’ve told you, we will not have ginger shaming in this locker room,” Darling shakes his finger threateningly at him, “right, Staalsie?’“Yes?” the alternate captain shrugs. Clearly, it is better to defer to the goalie’s wisdom, so Dougie smiles and gives him a poke to the ribs disguised as a hug.





	Impressionism

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this in anon because Andrei is a teenager and I'm a little weirded out by that but I still wrote this so! I Am Weird!
> 
> This fic has evolved...considerably since I first began writing it before last season even started!! Which is why some roster stuff doesn't match up. And some guys can probably be considered to be out of character. And Scott Darling is on the Canes. But whatever! He deserves every good thing and I wanted to write him being happy. Lol I just really wanted to finish up the piece so I did, even though it isn't my best work. It was haunting me.
> 
> Title is after the artistic movement, of course!
> 
> If you know someone in this, please don't read it, this is all so so so fake, etc.
> 
> Hope you enjoy and please comment if you do! <3

In case you haven't heard, Dougie likes museums.  


When Dougie was with the Bruins, they’d tried to shame him for that. They’d called him _girly_ , and _pussy_ , a _pansy_ , _sissy_ (outside of Chara and Bergeron’s earshot, of course). Dougie would listen to his teammates’ taunts, pick up a couple sandwiches from the player’s lounge, and go straight to the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, to see the latest exhibition before it closed. He’d eat his lunch in the sculpture garden, surrounded by the bustle of the crowd, not his teammates. Two out of 21 teammates, even if one is the captain, isn’t enough. They traded him for his pride.  


When he was a Flame, Dougie swallowed his pride a little bit. He made sure to devote his time in Calgary to team bonding. He shored up his sense of humor and his conditioning. He played better and better every game, every year. He’d slip away from the team, though, in Boston, in New York, in Chicago, in LA. He visited the Getty, the Met, the Art Institute of Chicago. He went back to the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston as though returning to the embrace of a lover one never wanted to leave. He let his teammates think he was hooking up. (If you go with that metaphor, he sorta was.) But when they did eventually find out, it was the same story as Boston. Why, they asked, incredulous, would he want to do weird artsy bullshit but not hang out with them? They traded him, too.  


With Carolina, Dougie just says “fuck it” and gives up trying to fit into some arbitrary mold of what a hockey player is.  


To Dougie, art is like reading the play on the ice. The player has to take into account where the puck is, where it started, who is holding it, what they want to do. Then there’s other things, like the ice quality, or preexisting injuries, bumps, and bruises, how his helmet’s sitting on his head, stamina, that affect the execution and outcome of the play. It’s all happening simultaneously, and while each of those things all matter, sometimes some things factor in more than others. The play never happens the same way twice, even with something like the trap, which has a consistent setup. The puck, the ice, the players, the fans, are all too unpredictable for that. There’s a beauty in it that keeps Dougie transfixed by the sport even though it’s his day job.  


Art really is like that, but replace “player” with a confusing and shifting jumble of artist, people in the piece, medium, technique, and story. Even if many artists paint the same thing, or even if the same artist paints the same thing many times over, it will always come out different. (Well, some mediums allow for the exact replication of an image by an artist, but that opens up a whole Campbell’s Chicken Soup can of worms.) There’s none of the stress of playing the game in real time, just the enjoyment of the puzzle, the joy of learning a little bit more for next time. Painting after painting, statue after statue, piece after piece – for Dougie, they are a parade of windows into thousands of games he will never play. And each is beautiful, too, in its own way.  


He likes going to museums. He loves being surrounded by the beauty of art. Sue him. He’s not ashamed of that. Doesn’t mean he likes his teammates any less.  
_________________________________  


The North Carolina Museum of Art’s schedule is a little finicky, they close a bit early, but he goes for the first time after a midday preseason game; he’d been too wiped from practices, setting up his new apartment, and learning the bare necessities of a new city to even consider venturing out earlier. Besides, it’s a short walk away from the arena. Dougie washes up quick as he can, takes care of media, and walks faster than he probably should after playing almost half the game. The museum is amazing, but more than that, well. When a couple of the guys asked him if he wanted to go get food with them, he declined, and they let him go with a few light chirps and "have a good time, dude"s, no cajoling or interrogation like Dougie’s faced before. Admission is free. Dougie walks in there in his game day suit. It doesn't feel like anyone is looking at him behind his back. It’s freeing, and a little euphoric. Something about that makes the art on the walls seem just that little bit more beautiful.  


Of course, the next day Darling snickers at him as he walks into the room. When Dougie looks over, confused, he asks, “Had a good afternoon yesterday, Hammy, eh?”  


He holds up his phone; pictures of him in the galleries were uploaded to Twitter. Dougie’s heart sinks. He should have known yesterday was too good to be true.  


“You’re like, an art cryptid,” TVR says from a few yards away, sitting in his stall with no shirt on, as usual. “A big, ginger art cryptid.”  


He’s grinning, a big smile, nothing behind it but a gleeful anticipation of chirping Dougie to oblivion about this. That’s tantamount to approval, among hockey players. Dougie’s chest lightens just a little bit.  


“I’ve told you, we will not have ginger shaming in this locker room,” Darling shakes his finger threateningly at him, “right, Staalsie?’  


“Yes?” the alternate captain shrugs. Clearly, it is better to defer to the goalie’s wisdom, so Dougie smiles and gives him a poke to the ribs disguised as a hug.  


“Thanks for looking out for me, Darling.”  


“I swear, how do half the guys on this team make my name sound like a pet name in literally any situation ever?” Darling shakes his head, but he’s not angry. He swats at Dougie’s head, one of the few guys who doesn't have to really reach up to do it, and tells him to get to his stall, so he does.  


"Seriously, though, how did you do that?” Hayden asks. He’s a couple stalls down from Dougie, so he pauses there, leans on the wood. The room is largely silent; it’s pretty early, and nobody is too awake, so most of the guys are just listening, waking themselves up.  


“What?”  


“You were out in a public place,” Hayden ticks off a finger, “hockey fans saw you,” another, “and yet they didn’t come over and hound you for pictures and autographs? Man, you gotta tell us your secret.”  


“Do you even need it, though? We live in North Carolina, practically nobody cares about us.”  


“We’re trying to change that,” Williams reminds them quickly, doubtlessly mindful of his new C, and Dougie inclines his head in his direction, because that’s true.  


“Yeah, but as it stands.”  


“You somehow found hockey fans, and they didn’t bother you,” Hayden insists. “How?”  


Well. Okay. Dougie thinks about it. He frowns. He goes and sits in his stall and thinks some more.  


Aho says something to Teuvo in Finnish, and he laughs.  


“What did he say?” Slavin asks.  


“He says that Hammy must be some kind of magic to do that,” Teuvo explains, wiggling his eyebrows at Dougie.  


“I’m not magic,” Dougie laughs.  


“Maybe he’s not magic, but his hair is,” TVR puts in.  


“Riemsdyk, I swear, I will-“  


“Sorry, Darling,” TVR smiles sweetly at the goalie, makes a show of running a hand through his hair, which looks very nice today, and batting his eyelashes. Darling looks fond as he rolls his eyes, charmed despite himself.  


“Maybe he smells,” Martinook adds, smiling wickedly.  


“What, like you do?” De Haan begins elbowing him aggressively.  


“It’s not me, it’s the hockey pads!”  


“You keep telling yourself that, my dude.”  


"Fuck you, you smell worse than I do!"  


Aho talks over the two of them as they continue bickering. “Maybe they were scared by his height.”  


“My Sebby,” Svechnikov creeps up to him and drapes an arm around his shoulders, smirking. Svech has been shy so far, natural considering he’s a hyped rookie with English as his second language, but he’s the youngest player in the room by almost two years. Based on the twinkle in his eye, he’s obviously recognized a good opening to contribute to the conversation, explain some “young people lingo,” as Faulk would put it. (Well, he probably would; Faulk is a zombie before his skate first hits the ice in the morning, even with coffee, so he’s slumped over in his corner stall pulling on his shin guards and socks glacially slow.) Besides, Svech only walked in a couple minutes ago, and without the first part of the conversation it’s probably a little confusing.  


“You not hear expression? I want to climb him like a tree?”  


“You want to climb Dougie like a tree? What, do you want to be taller?”  


“No, no,” Svech says, laughing as he pushes Aho away, then walks to his stall.  


“Nah, Sebby, what it means is that girls love to sleep with guys who are much taller than them so that they can push ‘em around and hold them up in the air during sex,” TVR explains. Of course it’s TVR that explains.  


Half the dressing room turns to look at Dougie. He turns bright red, avoids eye contact at all costs. Their expressions range from considering to disgusted to clearly imagining either Dougie having sex, or having sex with Dougie; Dougie can’t tell which exactly and doesn’t want to think about it. He starts fiddling with his equipment, searching for his roll of clear stick tape, just for something to do.  


“Oh,” Aho nods, satisfied, “like in porn.”  


“Yes. She’s, like, so high in the air it’s like she’s sitting in a tree.”  


“She is a pretty bird.”  


A pause. Many of the guys muffle their snickers behind their hands, or whatever piece of gear they’re holding.  


“Yes, Sebby,” TVR agrees slowly, “she’s a bird.”  


“Point is, girls like Dougie’s height,” Svech finishes proudly, still smirking.  


“You could still want to climb Dougie, though,” Martinook butts in like he always does; he enjoys needling at the sore spots. “He’s got a few inches, like 30 pounds on you, yeah? Built like a fucking truck. He might be able to do it.”  


Dougie thought he couldn't get more red, but he was wrong. He feels his embarrassment so keenly that his ears ring a little. Svech, who had sat back down at his stall, hides his face behind his chest protector.  


“I want Hammy as teammate only,” he says, voice muffled by the barrier.  


“You sure?” Marty has smelled blood in the water, and he loves it. Dougie would tell him to shut up, but his mouth isn’t working. Because of the embarrassment or something else, he doesn’t know. And, again, he doesn’t want to know. He doesn't. This is crazy.  


“You can’t even look at us, let alone Dougie, as you say that. C’mon, look him in the face and tell him you don’t want him, just so that we can all be sure, eh?”  


“Okay, okay, we do not haze rookies and we are not about to start now, Marty!” Williams, thankfully, cuts in. Dougie can see, out of the corner of his eye, that Svech sags a little in relief behind his chest protector. His face is still hidden.  


“You apologize to Andrei right now.”  


“Sorry, Andrei.”  


“You be detailed now, _just so that we can all be sure you mean it_ , eh?”  


Marty winces, chastised.  


“Sorry I made public assumptions about your sex life in order to embarrass you, Andrei.”  


“Thank you,” Svech says, finally sitting up and lowering the chest protector from his face. Like Dougie, he’s also beet red, but visibly relieved. Hm. Maybe Marty hit closer to the mark than he’d have liked. That thought rips a maelstrom of other thoughts through Dougie, so he stops thinking about all of it immediately.  


Staal glances at Williams, then the wall clock.  


“So, Dougie, before we’re all late for practice and just so we never have to talk about it again, once and for all, can you please answer the question?”  


Dougie scrubs a hand over his face, trying to shake all that tree climbing business off. “Why nobody talked to me?”  


“Yeah.”  


“Well,” where the answer seemed so elusive before, it comes easily now, “I think…that’s how museums are. You’re not there for people – well, unless there’s a performance, or something – you’re there for the art. It’s supposed to be a quiet place for people to appreciate beauty. That’s why I go. Those hockey fans were there for the same reason. So, obviously they thought it was cool to see me, but they recognized that, so they left me alone.”  


Everybody takes that in for a moment. God, that’s the most open about all this Dougie’s ever been with anybody. And nobody’s laughing. Without meaning to, Dougie glances over at Svech. He’s considering, imagining the space, perhaps, with a little smile on his face.  


“That sounds pretty sweet,” says Hayden.  


“It’s just a chill place where no one talks but there’s pretty things everywhere?” Slavin clarifies. He clearly likes the first part, maybe not so much the second.  


“Yeah, well, a lot of contemporary, like new, art isn’t pretty at all. A lot of it is super weird to me, actually, I like the older pretty stuff.”  


“Cool,” Slavin nods a little.  


“Ah, yeah, I think so,” Dougie forces a shrug and a smile. Williams, bless him, recognizes these for the signals they are, and claps his hands.  


“Alright, you lazy bums, Canes Conversation Corner is closed, get dressed and onto the ice!”  


There’s some token grumbling about how Willie doesn’t let the guys have any fun, has a stick up his ass, is the worst captain in all the North American leagues, including the NWHL, etc., but everyone does as they’re told. Dougie does too. He grins where they can’t see, with his back to everyone, feeling lighter than he has in years.  


_________________________________________  


Dougie goes to the NCMA after their next midday game, and gets seen then, too; Darling seems to have taken it upon himself to keep track of all the Twitter gossip about him, so he’s the one to tell Dougie again, this time after their next practice.  


“Yeah, what can I say,” TVR laughs, lingering on the ice with Dougie as practice ends, “art cryptid! It’s the truth!”  


“What does that even mean?” Dougie asks, shaking his head and smiling. That’s one of the better names he’s been called by a teammate over all this stuff. Better as in more interesting, but also better as in complementary. (He thinks. If he has the definition of cryptid right.)  


“I don’t fucking know, man, it’s just you! It’s beyond explaining.”  


Darling sounds like he’s thinking out loud when he asks, “Not often any famous person goes to an art museum, eh?”  


“Well, it’s more common at contemporary art museums, and in the big coastal cities. More trendy, I think?”  
“

Hey, Dougie, saw there’s a new photography exhibit going on, couldn’t figure out what it’s about for the life of me, but I guess you’d have seen it the other day,” Willie glides up to their small group, done with his customary last few laps to close out his practice, “How was it? As far as I could tell, the reviews were good.”  


Dougie’s heart warms. All that stuff flies straight over Willie’s head, he just admitted that. Which means that he looked up that information just for him. To make him feel comfortable, cared for. So that he can care about the things important to Dougie. He’s such a fucking good captain. Maybe the best Dougie’s ever had, and the season’s barely started.  


“Yeah, it was great, thanks, Willie,” Dougie replies, looking him in the eye and hoping he understands everything he means. From the way he smiles, Dougie thinks he got it.  


Willie checks Dougie, then TVR, lightly.  


“C’mon, boys, let’s get changed, eh?”  


They all rag on him, but the three of them follow Willie down the tunnel like ducklings. He deserves no less.  
_______________________________________  


They have a string of good, hard practices. The streak mirrors a marked uptick in wins. Dougie's been feeling it lately. It's been awesome.  


After a Tuesday practice, Svech skates up to him.  


"Dougie, will you stay with me?"  


It takes Dougie a second, but he realizes that Svech is asking him to stay back and do some extra work. It's only the language barrier that made the words sound childish, but it reminds Dougie of just how young Svech is. And yet Dougie can't help but be impressed by his determination, his intelligence, his work ethic. Dougie is surprised; he hasn't talked to Svech much yet, and he usually asks some of the other guys to stay back with him, like Marty. He's tired, but—  


"Yeah, sure, Svech," he says. "Want to do some one-timers? I'll tee you up."  


"Sure, thank you, Dougie."  


They're quiet as they corral a pile of pucks to the visitor's net, mindful of Darling working with the goalie coach on the other end of the ice. Dougie gets into position and a puck on his stick. He looks down at it as he stickhandles idly in a way that he hasn't since he was ten; for some reason, he just can't look at Svech until he taps his stick on the ice twice to signal that he's ready. The first few pucks go crisply into the top corners of the net. Svech is a forward and a goalscorer down to the bone, of course they do.  


"Maybe don't pick the corners," Dougie pauses to suggest. "If you keep the puck close to the ice you get more power, and it'll be easier to get through traffic, especially from the point or further up the ice than the dots."  


"Be best during a screen, goalie can't see it," Svech notes. Dougie smiles.  


"Exactly. Wanna try it?"  


Svech matches Dougie's smile and nods. Dougie looks at it for a second too long before he resumes feeding pucks to Svech. He seems to lower the target of his shots in increments. First few shots at goalie head height, then the next few at shoulder height, the next few at blocker height, and then finally Svech is shooting low and hard where a goalie's five-hole would be. He's got a beautiful shot. Dougie's happy that he agreed to stay so that he can watch it over and over. He feeds Svech until he doesn't have any pucks left and the net is filled with them.  


"Good job, exactly like that!"  


Svech thanks Dougie with a blush and a duck of his head. "Can we do some more?"  


"Yeah, but I'm not gonna go easy on you this time, okay?"  


"Easy?" Svech squacks.  


"Yeah, man," Dougie smirks, "those were softballs I was lobbing. It ain't gonna be a perfect pass every time like that in a game."  


"Okay, do the worst you can, then."  


"Wait, dude, we gotta get the pucks outta the net," Dougie calls after Svech, who was on his way back to his one-timer spot across the ice from Dougie. Svech turns, smiles sheepishly, and heads to the net to retrieve the pucks, passing them gently over to Dougie to settle back into a pile.  


"Dougie, I...what's your favorite art?"  


"Um...my favorite kind of art? Or my favorite single piece of art?"  


"Your favorite one art, yes."  


The question is unexpected, to say the very least. Dougie fumbles a puck a little, but it's not like it's a question he's never been asked before. It's just, well. He's been asked the question probably more times than he can count, but the answer? That's changed at least as many times.  


Last time Dougie had been asked was, it feels like ages ago now. It'd been someone in Calgary, he doesn't remember who. He'd just been to the Met in New York City, so his answer had been _Madame X_ by John Singer Sargent. He'd said something about her sensuality and mystery, mentioned the anecdote about Sargent repainting her dress strap so that it no longer slipped scandalously down her arm, but that was a fake answer. His real favorite piece of art at the time had been _Portrait of Baron Rene Hyacinthe Holstein_ by Jean-Baptiste Mauzaisse. It was on loan to the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston when he saw it. Rene looks out with a cool gaze, but he doesn't have a haughty expression like other men painted in the era do. He just looks relaxed and approachable, his hair shining and soft-looking. Standing in front of his portrait, Dougie felt his lips quirk to match Rene's expression. He wanted to know him, to undo the knot of his cravat, to run his fingers through his hair. It's not often that Dougie feels that urge to enter the world of a painting like that.  


But it's a painting of a man so how could he just, like, say that to people? Whatever, his answer has changed again since then at least a dozen times, so it's not a problem that he needs to deal with. Dougie starts feeding Svech again, this time making his passes imperfect and unpredictable, forcing him to adapt every time to get a good shot off.  


" _The Cliff, Étretat, Sunset_ by Claude Monet," Dougie finally replies after a half dozen passes. He returns to silence and is content to stay that way, until he realizes that absolutely none of what he said would be comprehensible by Svech. Shit. Dougie doesn't want to be one of those stuck-up elitist art snobs. He begins to explain more, every few words punctuated by the loud crack of Svech's shot.  


"It's in one of the museums here in Raleigh. It's just a small painting of a sunset, but it only looks like that from far away because the brushstrokes are so big. He used oil paints, which are really thick, and created this texture that's sorta like fish scales that are all different colors and together make a picture. Like, have you ever seen one of those viral things where someone makes a picture out of M&Ms, or something like that? It's like that, just with paints. It was a whole style, Monet like either invented it, or if he didn't, he was definitely the best at it, I don't remember. I...I want to reach out and touch it and see what it feels like, you know? I love when paintings look like they'd feel nice if you reached in and touched it, like in a portrait where the person is wearing a fur coat or something like that, and it's just painted _so well_ and it looks so soft. But, this, Monet, is on a whole different level. The whole painting looks like it would feel soft and welcoming to touch, it practically looks gentle. That's probably super weird, but whatever. It has serenity, yet mystery; haziness, yet clarity. It's just beautiful to look at, and I love it and I love looking at it."  


The rink falls silent again, Darling long since left. They're almost out of pucks.  


"Oh," Svech says after he's shot Dougie's last pass into the bottom right corner of the net, the puck skimming the ice as though he's been taking point shots his whole life. He looks over at Dougie, breathing a little rough from the effort.  


"Thank you for telling me, Dougie."  


"I...Sorry, I went on a rant there for a minute, that was really weird, sorry—"  


"Dougie," Svech interrupts as he skates over, "I liked it."  


"Really?"  


"Yes, Dougie. It sounds beautiful. Will look at it on Google later. Maybe I'll see it in person someday."  


"Yeah, that'd be cool," Dougie replies distractedly, not quite believing that he's not being called a fucking crazy nerd, told to please never talk again. "You wanna hit the showers?"  


Svech nods, and they make their way off the ice together. The dressing room is deserted.  


"Hey Dougie, will you go out to lunch with me?"  


Dougie looks over at Svech with an incredulous expression which he's lucky Svech doesn't see; he's got his chest protector halfway off, blocking his eyes. (His Underarmor shirt is soaked in sweat, clinging to his chest and shoulders. Dougie doesn't allow his eyes to linger. He doesn't.) After all of Dougie's weirdness, Svech still wants to spend yet more time with him? Well, who is Dougie to refuse?  


"Sure, Svech."  


After Svech has wrestled his Underarmor over his head, his answering smile is blinding. (Dougie doesn't allow his eyes to linger. He doesn't.)  
______________________________________  


It’ll be months until Dougie can get back to the NCMA, which sucks because there’s more than one new exhibition there that he really wants to see. In the meantime, though, he’s been to other museums and galleries on the road.  


In Boston, he’s all set to go back once again to the Museum of Fine Arts, but his teammates interfere. Svech, TVR, and, randomly, Slavin were thick as thieves for the whole morning practice, whispering to each other incessantly. Afterwards, Dougie’s just getting dressed, minding his own business, making sure he had a baseball cap to wear in the museum to stave off autograph seekers (not everyone is as considerate as NCMA visitors), when the three of them, and Darling, surrounded his stall.  


“So, Dougie,” TVR begins, trying to sound casual but failing – or is he doing that on purpose just to make Dougie worried? – “what’re you doing right now?”  


“I, um, I was just gonna go get food real quick and then head over to the MFA?”  


Even though Dougie knows very well that his teammates don’t care about this stuff like his last teams did, that they like and respect him anyway, it’s still not very easy for him to be open and casual about it.  


“The what?” Slavin asks.  


“The Museum of Fine Arts, I think we passed it on the bus?”  


“That’s stupid, you lived here, you’ve probably been there a billion times!” TVR protests.  


“You should try something different,” Slavin adds before Dougie can voice his disagreement with that.  


“With us,” Svech finishes. Then he smiles, which is absolutely unfair. He’s model-level beautiful, which Dougie could handle any day of the week; he played with Tyler Seguin, for fuck's sake, and he can guarantee that Seguin has no idea that he plays for the other team. (Much like Dougie's predilection for art, he's just always thought liking guys was too much work, too polarizing, too weird in a locker room setting, to be open about. But hey, maybe he's wrong – look at how the Canes have been acting about it.) What gets Dougie about Svech is that his eyes are always kind, always gentle, in a way that Dougie thought was impossible for someone Svech’s age. Feeling helpless, Dougie turns to Darling, the only one who hasn’t spoken yet.  


He knows exactly what Dougie’s feeling, even though he had no idea how he was gonna express it. “TVR asked me to chaperone, whatever that might mean,” he explains, rolling his eyes. Goalie powers at work, no doubt.  


“It’s daytime, I don’t want to get—”  


“Oh, no, it’s not drinking, I swear,” TVR breaks in, “nothing to do with anything like that, no recklessness of any kind involved here.”  


“Well…”  


It’s like they all perk up a little, lean in a little closer, even Darling, who obviously wasn’t part of the planning committee during practice, as Dougie expresses even the remotest possibility of saying yes, of spending time with them. Unlikely as it seems to Dougie, they want his company. Faced with that, how can he refuse?  


“Okay, I’m in,” he relents, smiling and blushing a little in the face of the little group’s answering cheer, “What did you guys have in mind?”  


“We have everything arranged,” TVR says as he begins herding Dougie out of the dressing room. Svech stays in step with Dougie at his elbow, Darling and Slavin trailing, “it’s a short drive away, and it’s small, so we won’t need hours like you probably usually do. We can pick up something for lunch along the way, one of us can Google it when we get in the car, or, do you have somewhere nearby you'd like to go? You lived here, you'd know best, after all. But we’ll definitely be back to get dinner near the hotel with plenty of time before curfew. Usually they only have it open in the evenings, but Jake and I called ahead and they agreed to let us come today if they can put a picture of us on their website, and I was like, fine, that’s not so weird, like restaurants where we go do that kind of thing all the time right? So we thought you wouldn’t mind. And—”  


“Wait,” Dougie stops short in the middle of the parking lot. He looks at the earnest expression on TVR’s face, the excited anticipation of Jake and Svech, Darling’s smile like a proud older brother, “you…planned this? In advance?”  


“Yeah.”  


There’s something stuck in Dougie’s eye.  


“How…how long?”  


TVR shrugs. “A couple weeks. Three? Jake and I found this place, and we then were looking at our schedules, and their schedule, so we needed to make sure they’d make special arrangements for us.”  


“I…,” holy shit, he has the best teammates ever, “thank you, Trevor.”  


He smiles. “Don’t just thank me, thank Jake, too. This place was his idea. And Svech! Actually no, not Svech, he just sat there looking pretty the whole time, didn’t help at all.”  


“Spoiled rookie,” Slavin jokes. Dougie likes Jake, but they haven't been very close since he arrived in Raleigh, despite them both being defensemen. He figures that’s changing permanently today. Dougie laughs, surprising himself, as Svech bears the indignity of Jake elbowing him in the shoulder. Svech ducks his head sheepishly, but he’s smiling too.  


“No English,” he protests with a thicker accent than usual and perfectly guileless expression. And then they’re all laughing, big, loud laughs echoing around the parking garage.  


“Sharing my rental okay with you?” TVR asks.  


“Well, since there’s five of us,” Dougie makes a show of studying their group carefully, feeling lighthearted and playful like he hasn’t in ages, “I’m okay with it as long as the rookie takes the middle seat.”  


“Dougie,” Svech clutches his heart dramatically, “I thought you liked me!”  


"Tough, Svech. Maybe I don't like you as much as you thought."  


Svech's expression is just...knowing. Like he can see straight into Dougie's heart. Like he can taste the lie in the air. Like he knows that's still an understatement. Like that isn't a problem. Something in Dougie's chest flashes still, forcing his entire focus onto Svech. Then with his next breath it unfreezes, leaving only an unsettled feeling in its wake. He tears his eyes away.  


“You’re still a rookie, I second the motion,” Jake interjects, oblivious to Dougie's distress.  


“Thirded,” Darling immediately adds. “And since Trevor is driving, that’s a supermajority, and you’re stuck, kiddo.”  


“Fine,” Svech pouts dramatically, but climbs into the backseat. Dougie circles around to get in the left side. By some unspoken prior agreement, Jake takes the front seat with no protest from Darling.  


“Seatbelt, Svech,” Darling reminds him as they’re pulling away.  


“Thanks, mom,” he rolls his eyes, but puts it on. He jostles Dougie considerably as he does; it’s a tight fit back there, the three of them shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm, leg to leg. They’re all hockey players. It's pretty cramped. Acutely feeling Svech pressed into his side, Dougie does not complain.  


“So, Jake,” Dougie finally gives in to his curiosity as TVR pulls onto the street, “you chose the place, tell me about where we’re going.”  


Slavin twists in his seat to smile at the three of them.  


“It’s called the Museum of Bad Art! I figured, you’re used to great art in giant places, but we’re not used to that at all. A small museum with bad art should be a good neutral ground, right? A good intro for us into art and museum stuff. Then we can, like, work up to the big ones like the Boston one, and the ones you like back home, eh? And it still seemed like a super fun place from their website.”  


There are a lot of ways Dougie can answer that. Like, there’s no such thing as bad art. Calling art bad is to devalue it. Thus, this would be the worst possible introduction to the art world. Bad art will not help them develop their aesthetic tastes so that they’ll enjoy a real museum. They all feel out of their depth, but that’s just because of elitism and art gatekeeping and therefore shouldn’t have to work their way up to anything, they should just dive in.  


Those answers are all bullshit. Especially since he said their plan is to keep doing this with him, and the other guys nodded in agreement. Especially since that thing that was stuck in Dougie’s eye before has come back.  


“Yeah, Jake, that sounds awesome,” is all he can say, smiling wide. Svech knocks his shoulder into Dougie’s companionably.  


When he turns to look at him, Svech is smiling, too, honest and kind like before. Dougie’s stomach flips. In excitement. Just in excitement.  
___________________________________

After that visit, which went great (and Dougie has never been happier to have been wrong in his first impression of an art institution before, the Museum of Bad Art is the bomb), a lot of things happen that sorta unbalance Dougie's routine up to that point in Carolina. For one, as promised, the pictures of them were uploaded online, so of course reporters start asking Dougie, Darling, TVR, Jake, and Svech about them. Dougie laughs and dispatches the question without really saying anything, but the other guys? They actually kinda answer.  


"Yeah, it was fun, Dougie brought up the possibility of getting into art, and so a few of us decided to start exploring that. We're trying to start a new trend," Jake says.  


"The art was so bad, it was hilarious, there was this horrible one of a baseball player that we laughed at until we cried," TVR says.  


"It was cool to do it with them, especially Svech, since he's like never been in a museum in his life so he didn't know any of the English words," Darling says. "It was funny to see him so out of his depth."  


Svech throws a sock at him. And then he says (exaggerating his accent, too), "Was great idea, so fun. Happy I went. Dougie is great guy."  


The media's fixation subsides pretty quickly, but seems to have opened a floodgate with the guys. They start to ask him weird art questions. Like, he helps choose what art print Willie and his wife buy for their second guest bathroom's wall. Then, a few of the guys ask him for museum suggestions; Slavin asks for a good one for a date night with his wife, and Dougie advises an evening event at the Gregg Museum of Art & Design. He directs Staalsie to the Marbles Kids Museum for his next Sunday family activity. When Necas and Mrazek text him that they're bored, looking for a place they can go and not have a problem with their English for once, Dougie directs them to the Legends of Harley Drag Racing Museum. When they come in the next week and rave about it at practice, a few other guys go, too. It slowly but surely infects every guy on the team like the common cold.  


"It's sorta like, an all-you-can-eat buffet," McGinn tries to explain the appeal of a museum when Martinook asks, a crease between his eyes, "but, you're not eating. But, like, you're eating stuff you've never heard of or seen before, or, maybe it's stuff you've always wanted to eat, or it's, like, stuff that's sorta like something you've eaten and liked but different enough that you're like, man, I gotta try this. And then as you eat everything you learn its name and what it tastes like and if you like it or not, but it doesn't really matter so much if you like it or not because it's just about the experience of trying it, ya know?"  


Dougie, blatantly eavesdropping from four stalls down, thinks he does.  


"I...Maybe?" Martinook's face is all screwed up, but not in anger, he's just thinking too hard and his brain isn't equipped for that. He looks stupid. Dougie snorts.  


"Whatever, man, I wanna go to the place Dougie told Jake about, y'wanna come with me after next road trip?"  


"Uh..."  


"We can make a night of it, they have booze?"  


Martinook's face smooths out into an excited smile.  


"Fucking lit, I'm in."  


"Cool!"  


"Hey, Goose," Martinook yells across the room, "d'you wanna go see art and get drunk with me and Ginny?"  


"Sure!"  


And they do, and they have fun, and thank Dougie for it. It's honestly surreal.  


Museumgoing is no longer a furtive, solitary experience for Dougie, and that's the biggest change in routine of all. He goes out with his "museum gang," as TVR calls the group, all the time when they're on the road, showing them museums he'd grown to appreciate during his career, interspersed with ridiculous novelty museums Jake finds online. They go to a few Raleigh museums, too. But he doesn't go back to the NCMA, not alone and not with the guys. Maybe he's repelled by it because that's the place he's been seen in, but also...it's just, really such an excellent museum, exceptionally beautiful. It feels like a treasure, something to be saved for a reward or a special occasion. So he doesn't plan to go back again until much later in the season, when once again the Hurricanes have a midday home game.  


As he prepares to leave the rink and head over, Dougie's a little keyed up. The game was great, the Canes won, and Dougie himself had an amazing game. He got first star, and the way the crowd chanted his name...he hasn't felt that kind of love from any crowd in a long time. It warms something deep in your chest and lingers for a long time afterwards. Before Dougie is fully ready to leave, but after media had been chased out of the dressing room again, Svech comes up to his stall.  


"I remember, you go to the museum nearby after last early game," he says.  


"Yeah, you're right," Dougie replies (it's been getting easier and easier to talk about it all, but he's surprised just how easily the words slip out of his mouth; maybe it's that it's Svech), "I'm gonna head over there now, actually."  


Svech's cheeks go a little pink, or, maybe they already were pink, left over from the game. He smiles a little, shyly. He ducks his head, but looks Dougie in the eye.  


"Well, was wondering, can I come with you?"  


Dougie does his best not to gape like a fish.  


"I...I, well...I just, I like—"  


"I know," Svech's smile is unchanged. "You like doing alone, sometimes. Nice to do with friends, but alone is also nice. This time for you is special. I just...I want you to know, that I would go with you, if you want. Someday."  


Dougie can tell that he goes full tomato red, because his heartbeat picks up substantially. Something weird is probably happening to his face, torn as he is between smiling and screaming -- in incomprehension, in joy, in triumph, he has no fucking clue. He's just flabbergasted. That is the very last thing Dougie had expected to hear, because...there's intention there. Svech just put something on the table between them. What that thing is, Dougie isn't sure, but he damn well knows what (perhaps against his better judgement) he wants it to be. And even though Dougie probably looks demented, Svech doesn't let it bother him. He just waits patiently for Dougie to pull it together, still smiling, still relaxed. So sure of himself, despite the language barrier, and despite their age gap.  


"Someday?" Dougie repeats dumbly. And yeah, he feels dumb, can't look at Svech anymore. He reaches into his stall and pulls his suit jacket off the hangar, folding it over his arm. Svech catches his right hand as it smooths down a lapel. It feels like a hot shock up his arm, forces his eyes back to him.  


"You know, Dougie, it was my idea to start the Museum Gang, but I asked Trevor not to tell. Because I wanted an excuse to spend more time with you. And learn more about what you love."  
Svech squeezes Dougie's hand once, just once, with both of his, eyes so impossibly soft. Dougie's breath is caught in his chest until Svech releases his hand. It still burns, after.  


"I...Svech, Andrei, I..."  


All this time, Dougie has noticed Andrei. Has _seen_ Andrei. He'd like to say that he's seen him as a teammate and nothing more, but that would be a lie. Dougie's seen the beauty in his face, his artful nature. He's like that portrait he saw at the MFA and loved; he has longed to cross the divide between them. He's like that Monet painting of the sunset; Dougie wants to touch him, to see how he feels under his fingertips.  


All this time, Dougie has known just how bad an idea that is. To make a move on a teenager is creepy as fuck. Their age difference is pretty big. Andrei still lives with his mom, for goodness' sake. Plus, of course, they're teammates. On a hockey team. Due to Trevor's leadership, homophobia is pretty much nonexistent in the room, but that doesn't mean getting involved with a teammate is a good idea.  


But this isn't Dougie coming onto a teenager. This is Andrei approaching Dougie after getting to know him for months, ample time in which to decide what he wants.  


That's...is that enough?  


Whatever's happening on Dougie's face, Andrei doesn't take it well. He draws shutters over his confident expression, takes a step back and a little sigh.  


He says, "See you tomorrow, Dougie," and...that's going to be that. Andrei turns and walks over to his stall and picks up his bag and leaves.  


Dougie is caught in that moment, left in Andrei's wake, for longer than he'd like to admit. He's going to let this lie. He's going to let Andrei walk away, lick his wounds, get over him, get together with someone his own age. So Dougie shakes himself out of his stupor and puts on his suit jacket with care. He takes one last survey of his stall, makes sure he has everything he needs. He shakes out the tension from his shoulders, takes a deep, calming breath and releases it slowly. He picks up his bag, settles it on his shoulder, and turns to leave.  


And comes face-to-face with Andrei.  


Dougie, surprised, experiences a full-body flinch. "Jesus, Svech," he exhales, pressing a hand over his suddenly-racing heart like a grandmother.  


"Sorry," Andrei says, though he doesn't sound very sorry.  


"What're you doing here? I thought you were heading home."  


"I was," Andrei frowns, "Went to my car and put away my bag, but I couldn't leave."  


"Why?"  


Andrei narrows his eyes. "You know why."  


"I...," Dougie fights the lump of something resembling panic in his throat, "I know you want something from me. I'm not sure what."  


"I want to date you," Andrei declares, heated, "I want you."  


The words land about as heavy as Dougie expected them to. He bites his lip, and _Andrei's eyes flick down to watch,_ what, what even is his life.  


"I think you want also," Andrei's voice isn't as sure this time, "I think we could be good."  


"Andrei, you're nineteen, and I...," The 'I know' look on Andrei's face stops Dougie in his tracks. So he's thought about this thoroughly, then. Just as fast as that hard look crossed Andrei's face, his eyes soften again in that way that Dougie has always treasured. He leans closer to Dougie as though preparing to share a secret.  


"Is okay to be scared," Andrei says softly, "I was scared, before. Had to think a lot. Read some books. But English reading is hard, so listened to the books instead on the plane. Learned a lot. Talked to my mama. I am not scared anymore."  


He has been afraid, Dougie realizes. Of being shunned by his team for who he is again, of doing wrong by Andrei. The former isn't going to happen. Everyone likes Dougie's predilection for museums, and Trevor and Willie will beat up anyone who says something homophobic to Dougie if he decides to come out. And here is Andrei showing him that he wouldn't be doing the latter either. He wants a relationship. They'd be in this together. On Dougie's next exhale, something heavy leaves his chest, and it's like he's looking at Andrei's beautiful face with fresh eyes. The line between art and Dougie's reality has never been thinner; all he needs to do is reach out and cross it.  


So he does; Dougie fits a shaking hand over Andrei's shoulder, next to his neck. Andrei looks between the hand and Dougie's face a couple times, like he can't believe it's there, but when he seems to accept it he smiles wide and true, his jawline sharp and shining, his eyes crinkling into almost nothing. Dougie smiles back, marshals his courage.  


"We can go to a museum together if you want, but maybe before that, we can go out to dinner? Like on a date?"  


"Yes, Dougie, I would love to."  


For a second Dougie is sure that Andrei's gonna kiss him, but he doesn't. He throws his arms around Dougie's neck for a hug instead. Dougie relaxes in his hold after a moment. He smiles into Andrei's shoulder, so wide that he thinks the corners of his dry lips crack, but he doesn't care. He winds his arms around Andrei's torso to bring him closer, warm and content and excited for his—no, _their_ future.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have never been to North Carolina so I just looked up a list of nearby museums to mention in this story. If I got something wrong, sorry, North Carolinians. They all seem pretty cool though so I'd definitely like to visit them one day!
> 
> Just for the curious, [this](https://www.gdfalksen.com/post/63351611978) is the portrait that Dougie like falls in love with lol. The other pieces I mention in the story are quite famous so I don't think I have to link them. But they're still gorgeous so go gawk at them!
> 
> Again, hope you enjoyed!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Impressionism](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20463338) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)




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